A Series of Events
by goblynn
Summary: My rather late in coming attempt to satisfy twenty-five prompts for the Mad Hatter/Reginald and Alice, as they exist in the WCMI universe. WCMI by DA's Bri-Chan and Rain--I own only the interactions I list here.
1. Morning

**Morning**

The sharp squeak of the gate-hinge was what drew her attention away from her embroidery, her eyes venturing to the footpath and her visitor. Unsurprisingly, her gaze fell on an outrageously tall hat and too-bright morning coat, the bold colors clashing against the pale beauty of the weeping cherry in her garden.

Meeting her eyes, Reginald smiled broadly at her, "Good morning, Alice!"

She sighed, returning to her task. "Good morning, Reginald."

He paused at the top of the steps, watching her needle fly through the thin fabric. "What are you making, dearest?"

"I'm monogramming my handkerchiefs."

He approached her, then, leaning over her to get a better look at her work.

"You're blocking my light, Reginald."

"Beg pardon—" He stepped aside, still admiring the looping APL forming at her fingertips.

Alice made quick work of the piece, unbinding it and putting it aside, then taking up another and tightening the hoop around the cotton. She looked up at him. "Is there something I can do for you?"

He looked down at her, her face and gown a-glow in the morning light, and bit his tongue. He'd intended to ask her to go walking with him (to inevitably end at taking tea and arguing over something of no consequence), but hadn't the heart to interrupt her. Not this morning. She was too comfortable, too rested—too lovely—to be bothered.

Reginald declined to consider the _why_ behind that—after all, he was well past _considering_ and fairly far along _certainty_.

She was still looking at him, her brow now quirked in curiosity at his lack of response.

"Oh, nothing, dearest Alice. Nothing at all. Though—" he fished through his pocket, an assortment of tea-related paraphernalia balanced on the porch railing before he finally produced an enormous handkerchief. "Would you do me the honor?"

Alice pursed her lips, brows pulled together. She looked unhappy. "What do you want me to do?"

He motioned at her hands—the hoop, floss, and needle—and struggled for the correct words. "That—the stitching—"

Alice's face relaxed in understanding. "You want me to monogram your handkerchief for you?"

"Yes!—please."

She frowned at him, thinking him acting far too _normal_ for her comfort, and loosened the wooden band again, dropping the white square into her lap and reaching for his—"It _is_ clean?"—and securing it tightly when he nodded. She pulled the pale blue floss from the needle, threading it instead with a bright hue of green, then took up the hoop. The handkerchief trailed over her knees, and he watched with great interest as she formed the first letter of his name in an elegant, blocked script.

The "R" complete, she paused.

Reginald watched her mouth twist in dissatisfaction, then a smile pull at one corner. She resumed her stitching with enthusiasm.

After a few minutes, she snipped the thread free and released his handkerchief from its prison, folding it into a neat square before presenting it to him.

It read RTIII.

He looked at her strangely.

Alice smiled. "You're so terribly insistent on reminding me that you're 'the Third'—I thought it might be appropriate."

His face lit up. "Dearest Alice, my darling of darlings! You are the most charming girl in all the world." He looked again at the tiny, neat stitches. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Reginald." She lifted her own discarded handkerchief from her lap and fastened it back in the hoop. "Was there anything else?"

"No—" he stepped off the porch. "Enjoy your day, pet." He strode away, her eyes on his back, the handkerchief clutched tightly in his gloved hand and pressed, once, to his lips.


	2. Evening

**Evening**

It was one of those early summer evenings where—after a stifling day—a storm had passed swiftly through, drawing people from their homes and out into the cooler air left behind. Families walked together, mothers and fathers relieved to be out-of-doors with their excitable children—elder couples hobbled along in quiet, comfortable with the silence, while the younger set tripped along in groups, giggles and shouts reverberating through the lanes. A few couples lingered in out-of-the-way places, away from prying eyes, happy to steal precious minutes in furtive conversation and kissing.

Alice had already stumbled upon one of these couples, hastened away and tried not to laugh—how people managed to be so surprised at being caught _in public_ never failed to amuse her; if they wanted to avoid notice, why not stay behind closed doors? or at least somewhere not everyone could pass by, like the back corner of a garden, or one of the walks deeper in the woods, or—

"A splendid end to the day, don't you agree?"

Alice came back to herself, finding Reginald watching her with interest. He was without his coat and hat—unsurprisingly, as it was still much too hot for _that_, in her opinion—loitering under a tree and toying with a pocket watch. As she drew nearer, he slipped the watch into his waistcoat and fell into step beside her.

"It was terribly hot, today. Quite unpleasant. I had a lovely cake—lemon, it was rather delicious—and the icing _melted off_. Melted! Can you imagine? Cake without icing is…well, I suppose it's more or less sweet bread, but not as satisfying. It simply requires icing, great heaps of it, to be proper cake. Mind you, I didn't let it go to waste—I simply ate the icing off the plate later."

She didn't reply, his words buzzing in her ears like insects, and continued down the lane, turning at the next corner. They were walking along a fence, the house behind it set a good distance back, a fat baby in a day-gown toddling through the damp grass. Alice paused, watching as the child ventured from chair to flower to bush, crowing in delight at a bird overhead before nearly tumbling headlong. The baby's mother looked up from where she was kneeling nearby, a cat rubbing itself against her side as she pulled carrots from the vegetable patch. She spoke to her little one, and the child called back to her in a lisping voice.

Alice's heart gave a twinge.

"A beautiful child, isn't it?"

She started, having almost forgotten the Hatter was nearby.

"Yes."

There was a heavy pause before he spoke again. "Would you like children someday, Alice?"

"I like children now, Reginald."

He huffed, rolling his eyes. "Rightly said. However, I mean otherwise."

She glanced at him—he was still watching the youngling explore its world. She turned her eyes back to the baby, as well. "I understand you to mean, then, would I like children of my own? If so, then yes—I should hope I like children of my own. It would be unnatural to dislike one's own offspring."

He swallowed a laugh. "Ah, yes—well put. Let me rephrase my question: would you, Alice, want to become a mother to your very own children?" He grinned. "There—I don't think I've left anything in doubt."

Alice smiled. "Quite thorough. And, to answer your question—someday, perhaps."

As they talked, the child caught its foot on the hem of the gown and fell upon its face, its mother rising and hurrying over to lift it up and kiss the round cheeks. Tucking the baby on her hip, the woman smiled at Alice and the Hatter before disappearing into the house.

Alice stepped away from the fence and moved on, Reginald at her elbow.

"You will make an excellent mother, cricket."

"I should think you would make an equally excellent father, Reginald."

He smiled to himself, daring a glance at her. "Someday, perhaps."


	3. Hot

**Hot**

"Alice, no—!"

The shouted warning came too late; her hand had already come down on the top of the pot-bellied stove. She shrieked, yanking her hand back almost instantly, but the stinging pain was proof she'd not been quick enough.

Reginald was at her side in a second, gripping her wrist and turning her palm for his inspection. The skin was a bright pink, the pads of her fingers dotted white. He made a low sound of disapproval and tugged her arm once. "Kitchen—go."

She hurried along in front of him, rushing to the sink and turning on the tap, thrusting her hand into the cold water. He was beside her directly, his gloved hand resting low on her back. "Keep it under the water; I'll get a wrapping and salve." He disappeared, returning momentarily with a round tin and rolled bandage he placed on the counter beside him. "Let me see."

"It hurts."

His eyes met hers. "I know, dearest, but I can't make it better if you don't let me look at it."

She relented, holding out her hand, palm up, skin burning from the feel of the air alone.

Reginald sighed heavily. "I'm going to put the salve on it, Alice. It will hurt to touch, but I promise to be quick about it."

She nodded, grimacing.

He led her to a chair in the corner, crouching at her feet. His touch was light, liberally applying the balm to her injured flesh. She winced, biting her lip and holding back tears.

"I'm so sorry, cricket."

"Why did you have a fire? It's July!"

He looked abashed. "I was blacking the stove—it was looking a bit ratty. The blacking has to cure…"

"By heat." Her words were flat.

Reginald turned away, reaching for the wrapping. "Yes—the heat burns off the wax." He began gently covering her hand, up to the wrist, in gauze. "I'd not expected you...I didn't think to mention—not until I saw you beside it." He tied a small knot in the bandage and looked into her eyes. "I really am very sorry. This is my fault."

Alice let her injured hand rest in her lap, her good hand reaching out to him. Her fingertips grazed his cheek and tugged gently on a white curl. "_Stop_. It was an accident." She smiled at him, not quite her usual smile, but a close approximation. "I'll be fine."


	4. Cold

**Cold**

"Do we really have to do this when it's so _cold_?"

"The sky is clearer in winter, Reginald."

He watched her bend over, using the spotting scope to sight a set-star. When she found what she was looking for, she locked down the declination and ascension controls and used the point as a reference as she began searching the night sky. After a moment, he looked away, puffing out breaths and watching the different shapes of plumes he could create in the chilly air.

"Here—look."

She'd stepped aside, permitting him access to the eyepiece. He crouched down, one eye screwed shut, and peered through the telescope. Centered in his field of vision hung a disc of banded colors—oranges and creams, dotted in the lower hemisphere. He watched it, somehow almost surprised at the sight, until he realized it was moving from view.

"Alice…it's going away."

"Oh, yes—well, it will do that…Earth's rotation and all." She smiled, her hand resting on the scope. "Did you want to continue? or would you like to see something else?"

He held her gaze a moment, searching her eyes. "I'd like very much to keep looking."

She ducked her head and dropped down to the scope. He wished he could have seen whether she'd blushed, but the light from the shuttered lantern at their feet was far too dim.


	5. Clean

She watched him from over the fence, a moment of observation stolen while his back was turned.

Reginald was beating a rug, the multicolored woolen carpet draped over his wash line. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows, permitting her to see an expanse of freckled forearms above bare hands. She watched his shoulders move beneath the white cotton of his shirt, the fabric pulling taut with every swing. With each strike, his body would pivot away, turning from the dirt swirling and falling to the ground.

Unthinkingly, she admired him—his form, his strength—and was quite clearly staring when he suddenly turned around and caught her.

"Alice?"

Recoiling, she tripped backwards and landed hard on the ground. She winced, her face pink, and started to push herself to her feet.

Reginald quickly came around the fence, crouching beside her. "Here, let me—"

"I'm fine," she snapped, her embarrassment still showing on her face.

He rocked back on his heels, watching as she scrabbled a moment before standing.

"My dress!" Alice was looking down at herself, the dusky green skirt marred with great streaks of dust.

"I can fix that." Her eyes darted to his. "If you like, that is. I mean—you can do it, I'm sure you can, I just—"

"How?"

Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into the garden. He searched the ground a brief moment before making a small 'ah-ha' sound and picking up a metal carpet beater. He brandished it like a sword before twirling it in his hand and saluting her.

She stifled a laugh; he winked.

Suddenly, he attacked her dress, the heart-shaped grill swatting the lengths of fabric and causing clouds of dust to rise up. She realized she'd have to move if she didn't want the dust to settle on her again, and began backing away; soon, she was dancing away from him, her face bright as he gave chase, whipping at her skirts.


	6. Dirty

It _had_ been an accident, really—he didn't understand why she was so angry at _him_, it wasn't as if _he_ had driven that automobile through the mud and splashed them—but he was wise enough to not point it out. Rather, he stood there (more liberally coated in mud than even _she_) and let her vent all her anger. She ranted and wagged her finger at him, turned an unattractive shade of red and—finally—took a deep breath.

In the lull, he spoke. "Are you quite finished?"

She looked like a fish out of water, her mouth making an "O" of shock.

He continued. "I'll choose to take that as a yes." He swept his hand along his torso, indicating his dripping clothing. "Bear in mind, _dearest_ Alice, that I bore the brunt of this for _you_. I _willingly_ stepped in your path in order to shield you as much as I could manage." He paused, wiping a bit of mud off his nose. "If _this_ is how you show gratitude, well…you can—you can go hang!" He adjusted his hat and stormed off, leaving her alone on the sidewalk.

She remained there a moment longer, completely flabbergasted at his outburst, before tearing off after him. "Reginald!"

He ignored her, continuing on very determinedly.

"Reginald—" She grabbed at the sleeve of his coat, forcing him to turn and look at her. "I'm sorry." Alice knew she must look a sight, what with mud splattered along one side of her dress—the Hatter, however, was covered head-to-toe as if someone had bodily dropped him face-first into a pig sty.

Alice snorted in a very unladylike manner.

Reginald was _not_ amused.

She smiled up at him.

He slowly, deliberately, wiped mud from his forehead and chin, reached out to her—and smeared it down her face.

"Now we're even."


	7. Water

_Improper_.

_Naughty_.

_Forbidden_.

_Illicit_.

Alice's mind made a list of all the words that someone could use to describe her actions, but she ignored the voice, stripping off her pantalets and rushing into the water. Since discovering this place—a secluded pool on the river, guarded by a thick stand of trees—she'd promised herself an afternoon of dappled sunlight, fresh berries, and swimming. She wasn't about to let expectations get in her way, even if she _was_ a little embarrassed to be bathing in the altogether.

She ducked her head under the water, diving down and turning below the surface like an otter, delighting in the freedom she felt—the cool rush against her bare skin—and grinning at what thoughts the fish must be having at the sight of her. She floated, paddled, and splashed; then tucked herself between two sun-baked rocks for a rest as she ate the blackberries she'd wrapped in a kerchief. When she'd finished, the kerchief was knotted to a low branch and she dove back in, intent on wringing out the last warm hours of her day. She dove deep again, fingers digging into the silt at the river bottom before she came up, wiping water from her eyes.

"Hello, Alice!"

She gasped, sucking in a mouthful of water and sputtering. Her arms flailed, trying to both cover herself and spin around in the water to see the identity of the interloper.

"_Reginald_!" Only her feet kept her afloat; her arms crossed over her breasts instinctively. "What are you _doing_ here?"

He stood on the bank, watching her curiously. "I came for a swim, but found you instead."

"You have to leave."

Reginald looked genuinely offended. "I don't _have_ to do anything, Alice. You don't own this place."

"Reginald—please. You _have_ to leave."

"No, I don't."

She was getting desperate. "Reginald, leave…_please_."

His eyes narrowed. "Why? Were you expecting someone?"

She'd strangle him. Yes—that would be ideal. Strangle him. Or drown him in his tea. "_No_."

"Then it's no problem with me coming in." He began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Hatter!" She shook her head, sinking lower in the water. "Reginald—I beg of you, don't!"

He shrugged, stepping out of his trousers and revealing a rather modern selection of bathing attire. "I'm not losing my afternoon to your petty whims, Alice." He draped his clothes over a branch. "Besides, you should _never_ swim alone."

She watched, horrified, as he dove in, disappearing from sight. She had a brief, crazed thought to attempt reaching the bank—and her clothes—but knew she couldn't possibly make it so far in the short amount of time she'd have before he surfaced.

Not a second later, he popped up less than five feet from her, swiping at his eyes and grinning madly. "The water's marvelous, isn't it, Alice?"

Her face was white, she couldn't go any lower in the water or she'd drown herself (briefly, the option sounded appealing), and he was getting that concerned look on his face, the one he always got right before touching her—

Reginald paddled closer. "Are you feeling alright?"

She shook her head, pushing out with her arms to put more space between them.

"Alice?"

"I'm naked!"

He froze, bobbing low in the water before regaining himself. "You're—what?—you're _naked_?"

She nodded, her face burning.

He stared at her a long moment.

"I need to get out."

"Mmm-hmm," he replied.

"You have to leave."

He nodded—but didn't move to go.

"Reginald!" Her eyes were wild.

"I'm going!"

He swam away, climbing up the bank and grabbing his clothes, looking back at her once before disappearing into the trees.


	8. Weather

The storm came upon her quickly—she'd hoped to reach home before it broke, but was caught in the open when the rain began. The wind was high, and she squinted against the stinging raindrops. Clouds roiled overhead, thunder rumbling down through her bones.

Alice trembled, fear overtaking her, and broke into a run. Half-blinded, she struggled to see her way through the field, feet catching in clumps of grass. She stumbled, righted herself, and rushed forward, knowing she couldn't be far from home.

Her hair lifted, prickling her skin, and she froze. The air around her went white.

Alice opened her eyes. She was crouching on the ground, rain pouring down around her. Disoriented, she staggered to her feet, picking up her skirts and running wildly.

She reached the edge of the field, slipped between the fence-rails, and entered the lane. She darted between the trees, her only thought _home-home-home_, and collided with something solid and wet.

"Alice!"

Her wet hair was pushed back out of her eyes, and she looked up into the pinched face of the one person she couldn't find a label for—adversary? friend? something else?—and she almost cried in relief. He was soaked, hatless, and wild-eyed, his hair plastered to his head. He was the dearest thing in the world to her at that moment.

"I've been searching for you everywhere—where were you?" Reginald looked at her muddy, sodden gown. "What happened to you? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, words tumbling out almost incoherently. "I was—field…couldn't see…there was lightning—I—"

His hands cradled her face, the pads of his thumbs brushing her cheeks. Rivulets of water ran down his forehead, fat drops falling from his nose. "You're fine—it must've struck nearby, is all. Let's get you home." He pulled her close, tucking her under his arm, guiding her along the way.


	9. Animal

Alice's eyes popped open, heart thundering in her chest. _What was that sound?_ She held her breath, listening closely. Distinctly, she heard scratching, followed by a long, mournful howl.

She jerked the sheets up over her head and burrowed under the pillow, trembling. Why she feared the…the thing, the whatever-it-was, she didn't know—but it terrified her, nonetheless. The idea that it wanted in brought tears to her eyes. What felt like hours passed, and she fell into a fitful sleep near dawn.

Her exhaustion was evident—she leaned over the counter at the shop, head resting heavily in her hands, and stared vacantly out the window, eyes half-closed. Reginald watched her from outside, hesitant to disturb her, but awfully curious as to her state. He gave in to the curiosity and slipped inside.

At the sight of him, she perked up. "Good afternoon, Reginald."

"And the same to you, Alice." He bowed with a flourish. "How are you this fine, splendiferous, and altogether-pleasant day?"

She yawned. "I'm very sorry—I'm terribly tired."

He leaned against the counter, half-facing her. "Bad night?"

"Yes, actually. Several bad nights, in fact."

His brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong?"

She exhaled heavily. "There's an…animal…keeping me awake at night."

"What sort of animal?"

She shrugged. "I've no idea. I heard it howling a few nights ago—now it's scratching at my door."

The Hatter's face paled. "How long has it been happening?"

"The howling?"

"Yes. The scratching, too."

"Last night was the fourth night I heard it—the second night it scratched to get in."

His face turned darkly serious, and he took her hands in his. "Alice, find somewhere else to sleep—get a room in town, if you must, but do _not_ sleep in your house tonight."

Something cold slipped into her veins. "Reginald…what is it?"

He released her, eyes looking away. "Truthfully, I don't know—I've heard only stories."

"What sorts of stories?"

He deliberately turned his back on her. "Stories that give no pleasure in the retelling."

"Reg—"

"I can't answer your questions, Alice…I don't know how. I can only ask you again to not go home. _Please_."

"Fine. I'll find somewhere else."

He turned back to her. "You promise?"

Alice stepped back, more than a little frightened. "Yes, but—Reg, what _is_ this thing?"

"It has no name."

"What does it want?"

"You."

She shivered, the cold reaching her very heart. "Me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"No idea."

"Can it—will it—will it go away?"

She could see his jaw clenching and relaxing. "Not on its own."

"How—"

Quite suddenly, he reached for her hand, turning it and pressing his lips to her palm. "I'll take care of it."

She opened her mouth, but he held up a silencing hand. "No more questions. Please—leave it." He left, then, without another word.

He wasn't seen for three more days. When, at last, he reappeared at the shop, he looked more than a little worse for wear—and if she noticed he acted a bit more mad than usual, she didn't comment on it.


End file.
